


No Better

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Depression, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Some things you just shouldn't be able to forget.





	No Better

**Author's Note:**

> I had a rough time yesterday, so I turned it on Wade.

The freezer in the shithole apartment is busted.

Technically, the whole fridge is useless; Nate muttered something about an evaporator fan, which Wade thought sounded fake, and he’d translated Nate’s talk of ‘figuring out a replacement’ to mean ‘buy a new fridge, dumbass’.

Which Wade would do, probably, impulsively, when he’s feeling less depressed and more manic. As things stand, he doesn’t strictly  _ need _ a freezer, or that much space to store chilled food, and since the freezer still gets cold, just not cold enough to be, you know, a  _ freezer _ , Wade could keep items he wanted to have chilled there. 

Nate’s trying to talk to him about some job he wants help with, and Wade’s futzing around over whether he wants a bean and cheese burrito or a steak and cheese burrito. It might seem like a small difference, but it’s a massive choice. Have to start the day right.

He decides steak sounds too decadent and grabs the bean burrito. Nate continues to talk as Wade shuts the freezer door and turns toward him, squeezing the cold burrito gently. It’s definitely cold, but it’s at least thawed all the way through. He hadn’t been sure, but the burritos have been in the freezer for at least two days, which, given that it’s just essentially just a cold cupboard, means they’ve had plenty of time to thaw.

Peeling the plastic wrapper away, he lets himself make eye contact with Nate, to better pretend like he’s been listening to a single word, and takes a bite of the burrito. It’s tacky on the outside, maybe from marinating in its own thawed juice for a couple days, and the texture is both yielding and gritty. Taste, almost nonexistent. He frowns and swallows.

“You’re supposed to microwave those, you know.”

Said with a sigh and a raised eyebrow, and Wade just has to laugh. “It’s cute when you act like you give a shit,” he says around a second mouthful, just to watch Nate pulled that pained look he gets. Is it the dismissal or the fact that Wade’s masticating beans and cheese while he talks? A mystery for the ages.

“You have no idea what could be in that.”

Wade takes another bite. It’s less disgusting if he just powers through. “Pardon me if I’m not worried about getting taken out by some kind of rare burrito pathogen.” 

Nate stares at him for a long moment, assessing, and his head tips to one side. “So, what is it? An anniversary? Her birthday? What’s got you moping today?”

The tone is acidic, intentionally caustic, meant to goad Wade into getting angry. It works sometimes, more often than Wade wants to admit, but today, he reaches for the anger -- expects it to be there, because Nate’s actually very good at pressing Wade’s buttons -- but there’s nothing. Utter apathy. Just one of those days, he supposes, and shrugs. That at least makes Nate’s brow scrunch up, his weird dud eye flaring, either surprise or irritation that Wade won’t take the bait.

He steps closer and Wade watches him, munching the gross burrito and wondering if he shouldn’t have gone for the steak after all. At least that probably would have had more texture to it. Eating this is an exercise in masochism. Wade persists simply because he’s hungry; it’s like taking medicine. Doesn’t have to be fun, just has to be done.

It’s something like a flinch, the way he snaps his head away when Nate reaches for him, but Nate, like Wade with his burrito, persists. His palm presses to Wade’s cheek, thumb sweeping just under his eye, and his eyes -- blue and glowy dud -- are sharp on Wade, trying to pick him apart in the way Nate picks everyone else apart, trying to find the cracks so he can repair them. Must suck to have all that power, to be able to wield it so precisely everywhere else, and come across someone who just totally defies the whole process. 

Of course Wade would be so fucked up that no one could even read his mind. Stupid cancer-riddled thing was probably so full of swiss-cheese holes there was nothing left  _ to _ read. 

“What would make you feel better?”

Wade knows how much Nate hates to have to ask. Not because he doesn’t care but because by all rights he should be able to pluck it right out of Wade’s head and just give it to him; he’s supposed to be the omnipotent one, the all-knowing savior, but Wade forces him to be just another guy. He doesn’t mean to, and that’s probably the worst part -- Wade has no control over his resistance to Nate’s abilities. 

The question is bad for both of them, because Wade, frankly, has no idea how to answer it. He doesn’t want to talk about the issue, he doesn’t want to be left alone, he doesn’t even want to kill anyone (else). He’s just existing, numb but aching, tired but wide awake. He knows Nate’s going to get fed up with it, but he shrugs; he can’t help it. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Except instead of throwing his hands up in exasperation, instead of pushing away or snapping at Wade for being an asshole (and he feels like one, don’t let it get twisted here; he really does feel like an asshole), Nate just frowns a little harder, looking at Wade not like he wants to hurt him but like he wants to split him open (not in a sexy way, but that’d do fine in Wade’s opinion -- anything to feel something) and root around inside until he finds what’s broken so he can heal it.

Nate takes too much on himself and Wade hates being another problem for him to solve. The attention is nice, but he’d rather be helpful, most of the time. If not, he’d like to at least make the inconveniences he tosses Nate’s way intentionally. He loves being looked after, in certain situations, loves attention and being cared about, but he hates being a burden, and that’s what he feels like here. 

Another burden for Nate to carry. 

It’s an ugly way to feel, but even that doesn’t hurt so much as it just settles, dark and thick in his guts, curdling his burrito. Or maybe Nate was right and the burrito really should have been nuked; either way, he doesn’t feel super great when Nate gently pulls the last few bites of the cold bean-wrap out of his hand and drags him into a hug.

Held like that, like he might shatter if Nate holds too tight, Wade slowly sort of melts into the embrace, letting it happen. There’s no point in fighting something that feels good, and when everything feels bad elsewise, he figures he should really ride that as far as he could. 

Everything comes at him like a knife thrown, deadly sharp and full of lethal intent, and all he can do is accept it. Denying the feelings just makes the blade dig in deeper; he’ll have to pull the knife out eventually, and it’ll hurt worse later. He wonders if this is what ‘acceptance’ is supposed to mean, and if so why it’s considered so healthy.

Because he doesn’t feel healthy. He feels flayed open and raw, he feels like misery hides in each drawn breath. Life sucks, what else is new? 

He rests his head on Nate’s shoulder and locks his hands behind Nate’s back and just lets himself be here. He doesn’t notice the tears until Nate sighs and pulls away from him, rubbing his hand -- TO this time, because Nate knows what Wade likes and how to give him a treat -- over Wade’s mottled cheek, smearing the wet away. 

“Dipshit,” Nate says, but it’s entirely fond, gentle in a way that makes Wade scoff and turn his head into that metal hand, hiding his eyes. “You never shut up this much, c’mon. Tell me what’s going on.”

When Wade doesn’t answer immediately, Nate catches his jaw in that strong grip and forces him to at least look at him. He’s got a choice at that point, and it’s like picking between burrito flavors -- neither is gonna be great and he’s going to regret either option but a choice demands to be made; there is no ‘decline’ option here.

“You wanna fuck?” He asks, gaming for at least a reprieve, but it only makes Nate smile in that tight-lipped, ‘your jokes aren’t funny right now’ way. The option to yank himself away and go on like he’s been going is still there, but that’s a powerful choice. Push Nate away now, and there’s no telling how long it’ll be before the touchy bastard deigns to visit him again. He huffs and pouts but Nate doesn’t let up. He won’t, until Wade communicates, either by withdrawing or by talking.

Bastard.

“I tried to call her.” He says, refusing to look at Nate, but finally giving him what he wants. “Like, bad enough right? I forgot, and I picked up my phone, and I went to call her because I had a joke for her, but I couldn’t remember her number so I went into contacts and there she wasn’t. And I couldn’t figure that out so I got as far as calling Chrome-bone because she’s my emergency contact so of course  _ he’d _ know and then it hits me, listening to the phone ring, that she’s fucking dead.”

Nate makes this soft, gentle noise, and Wade loves and hates that noise; it’s a noise that means Nate understands, and that’s so ugly he can’t stand it. This is a pain nobody should know, a pain that’s stupid and violent and blind. That it’s even possible to forget a thing like that destroys Wade, breaks his heart in a whole new way.

“It’s not even that she’s gone, it’s that I’m so fucking dumb I forgot, I forgot what I did to her,” He’s crying again and his voice is definitely raised, but Nate just watches him, gentle and present, accepting the flood of emotion as it comes. He offers no platitudes, and the only comfort is his physical presence -- he’s dropped his hold of Wade’s face now, so they’re just two assholes standing around in Wade’s shitty kitchen, one of them crying. “It was like her dying all over again. The whole fucking thing, all at once.  Kübler-Ross bullshit. ”

This time when Nate pulls him in, Wade collapses on him, and that feels more natural. Cable might be short, but he’s sturdy, and he holds Wade like it’s an old habit, easy and common place. Hard to believe that almost a year ago a hug had gotten Wade stabbed in the dick.

Smoothing his hand over the back of Wade’s head, Nate holds him through the shaking and the messy, ugly sobbing. When it starts to quiet, he starts talking, soft and reassuring.

“At first,” he says, “even though absolutely nothing else was right, I started every morning with the same routine I used when I was home. Part of that was feeling for Aliya. She was always open to me in the morning, too tired for telepathic barriers. Everyone has a feel to them, and hers was imprinted on me, it was part of waking up, part of being home. Now I go two, three weeks at a time without reaching for her, but then some mornings… it’s like stepping off a cliff, just this yawning void.”

Wade doesn’t know what to say to that -- it’s patently awful, and also hard to imagine, not just rolling over to look at someone but to be able to link brains somehow. Step into their head. For that to be a regular part of the day, that kind of intimate connection, and then to  _ decide _ to never go back to that. 

He sniffles and rubs his face into Nate’s shoulder and mutters a soft apology. And Nate doesn’t have to do anything, certainly doesn’t have to put up with Wade’s tears and snot, but he does, and he does it like it’s something that matters to him to get right. He guides Wade to the couch and settles on it beside him, and he doesn’t complain when Wade kisses him that Wade tastes like nasty cold burrito. He holds Wade’s face carefully framed in his hands and he kisses Wade with all that frustrating patience, so thorough Wade almost forgets his misery. Part of Wade wants to be dragged into that, or else throw them both into it, into passion and physicality that they can lose themselves in for a minute.

But it feels, ultimately, wrong, and after a few minutes, he pulls away and shifts so he can lay with his head in Cable’s lap, feeling him pet over his scalp with idle attention to the rambling texture of his skin. 

“So what was the joke,” He asks after a long stretch of silence, and Wade feels his heart clench at the same time as he smiles fondly, touched and agonized in equal measure that Nate should want to hear.

“How do you tell the difference between an oral and a rectal thermometer?”

Nate sighs, mutters something that sounds a lot like ‘Jesus Christ’, and then says, clearer, “How?”

And Wade grin is all delight now, rolling so he can look up at Nate’s face and watch the pain bloom there. “The taste,” he says, and cackles so hard he damn near chokes and Nate looks at him like he might punch him.


End file.
